Juno and the Jock
by theevilestgeekofall
Summary: "The thing is, Steve Rendazo secretly wants me..." what if meek Bleek isn't enough, and Juno secretly wants him, too? And so our rather douchebaggy protagonist falls for...a douchebag.
1. Chapter 1

Good ole Bleek and I walk to school everyday.

Yeah, sure, chuckle while you sip some wine with that cheese. What can I say—we're best friends and we're morning people.

Plus we're going out. We have been for basically a year.

I kind of love him and his awkwardness. He is the bacon to my orange juice. Coincidently the combination happens to be a breakfast of champions, thank you very much.

So put that in your pipe and smoke it.

So usually we're just bitchin' seniors laughing up a storm, but today we're just holding hands. I mean, it's nice and all, but we've been doing the whole we're-so-in-love-we-don't-have-to-even-talk thing for…kind of a while.

But heck, I deal. I can be one chill cat. And I just look over to see the sun in his hair…

And, hey, fuck the silence. The kid's just friggin' adorable.

I smile broadly, he smiles in that meek way of his back, we kiss (no tongue, darn) and we part ways. It's the start of second semester, so Bleek's all worried about getting to his new classes on time, yadda yadda.

Now on my own (a part of me is relieved he's gone?) I shove my hands in my jean pockets. They should probably be cleaned…probably have worn these babies for a good three days straight now. There's a sense of hippie legitimacy but the label of she's-the-girl-who-smells-like-homelessness looms near. I really can't have that. I mean I've already lived life as the cautionary whale; the way of the hobo is just a bit too much for me.

As I'm musing over the jeans I recall the fact I need to check out my schedule, as my fingers brush the bottom of my right pocket to find an entirely weathered piece of paper.

First thought: this dilapidated piece of paper has probably gone through the wash a trillion times.

Second thought: this crinkled piece of shit is actually my schedule.

I pull it out. From what I can make out first hour's Creative Writing with that one teacher who looks like a wrinkled trout (it's inexplicably true. See it to believe it, my friend) and, swear to blog, she smells faintly of fish. I've never had her, though.

Trout hits my tender nostrils right as I walk through the door. Not fun in the least. I'm halfway wishing Bleek would be right next to me so we could smile and hide our laughs together. Now, that would be fun. Maybe. Probably. Oh hell, definitely. She's the fucking trout lady. Bleek always thought she was a myth, now that I think of it.

I sigh. This could have been a legendary moment for dude.

So I shuffle up and down rows of seats, because good ole teach just had to place cutesy little name notecards on our desks: assigned seating. I could picture her, all excited, carefully writing out her students' names in Crayola and probably envisioning them all to be…what, five, six years old?

I sit down at my seat (front row. The gods are telling me to keep with my nerd status. I decide to embrace it). Her little notecard for me has smiley faces, clouds, and rainbows on it. A warm smile comes over me. Can't help but remember Bleek's postcard he sent me in Spanish class, all that time ago…

The bell rings (trout still not reporting for duty in front of class) but that's not what snaps me out of my little trip down memory lane. Nope, it's a voice, low and fucking cocky as hell—

"Geez MacGuff, I didn't think you could look any dykier, but you managed to pull it off. Bravo!" The voice cackled and clapped slowly.

I'd know that cackle anywhere.

I let a dry, venomous laugh, brushin' it off the only way I know how: bitch style. "Gee, Rendazo, I gotta say the douchiness of you and your thirty-dollar polo amazes me in its sheer magnitude of unoriginality. So, really, hat's off to you. You're a royally massive douchebag."

Steve Rendazo grinned, that stupid, I'm-a-jock grin, with his eyes all lit up, Chesire Cat style. He's eating this shit up. "Well, hell, that's not the only thing that's massive about me!"

Some dude behind us started to crack up. Rendazo high-fived him.

"Ah, how I adore your high brow humor," I quipped in a socialite sort of voice, with just the right amount of satisfying, bitter bite to it. "Simply _divine_."

While I do absolutely abhor Steve and his stupid insults dripping with the humor of a Neanderthal, I gotta say, there's a certain fun in the whole let's-insult-each-other thing. I call it the Ping Pong Effect. It's definitely a break from the quiet life I've had as of late.

Well sit me down and tell me I'm Charlie Sheen. You know you're life's headed down the shitter if you actually enjoy talking with Steve Rendazo.

"Class—class!" Trout now tried desperately to get the attention of a class of seniors she left alone for ten minutes. She evidently doesn't know that one minute—one second—of free time is enough to distract the minds of those suffering from a disease known as Senioritis.

Sure, it's a cheesy excuse, or joke, or what-have-you. But it's serious and it's pretty much fucking us all sideways right now.

Trout smiles desperately, Coke-bottled eyes glinting madly in the bluish sting of the school's cheap florescent lighting. It's Day One, and I think she's already considering giving up and retiring to a life of cheap bars, beer, and men.

Once again, a certain chuckle pushes me from my thoughts.

"This is so pathetic. I almost feel bad for her," he mutters cheerfully under his breath. It's as though he's meaning to eventually wind up murmuring sweet nothings to himself, but then…he glances at me.

And—damn, it could be the florescent lighting—I see him blush.

Sure, he has the hots for me, I knew that already. But this feels…real? (!) And, worst of all, as the two of us sit together laughing over The Hopeless Trout, I feel a faint tinge. Since I'm blushing, too.


	2. Chapter 2

I headed out of my seventh hour class when my phone, Ebeneezer, went off. I'd like to say the ringtone's some sweet downloaded tune (maybe even pirated off of some site, since I like to live on the edge) but it definitely is not. It's like some funky xylophone that's simultaneously trying to be Jamaican and drown itself. I'd change it, but I figure it suits Ebeneezer's personality quite nicely.

(I suitably ignored Steve's irritating little dance to Ebeneezer's theme song, taking long strides away from the vicinity of The Trout and all the weirdness associated with that class)

Like the chill cat I am I whip out the ole phone and click open the new text message in one fluid motion. Sometimes I just feel like a friggin' boss.

From, Bleek, of course: "Can't walk home. Science club." –In case you wondered, my man doesn't like the whole Lts Txt Lyk Dis thing some of my peers seem to fancy.

Here's the thing: though the whole flamingly proud individual thing is my claim to fame, I don't like walking by myself. It's like Brenda with dairy products: something just doesn't sit right in the stomach.

Of course, I resort to texting the only other legitimate tie I have to my peers: Leah.

"Banana Boat?" I dial confidently with my right thumb. Like a boss.

Banana Boat is an awkwardly titled store that is polluted with probably already-opened food and soda, ice cream of all the different flavors under the sun, and—who could forget—orgasmic banana splits for which the store is so lovingly named after.

Oh yeah, and everything's cheap. Dirt cheap. So Leah and I like to go there.

With no Bleek, what else am I going to do with my downtime? I'm not feeling slushy-worthy at the moment. Banana Boat's definitely the next-best option.

* * *

"So, what's your schedule like?" I drawl out to Leah, sitting across from me in a sticky store booth, stabbing the banana split between us with a plastic spoon.

Her eyes lit up like Miley Cyrus' must have upon realizing she could be a whore _and_ make Disney millions. Best of both worlds.

"Okay, so I have Mr. Carther, and he…" her words gushed out and she blushed with a fangirl kind of fervor. Almost as bad as when she found out that Justin Beaver kid had come out with a perfume line—"It's like he made it for _me_, Juno. You don't even _understand_!"

I wince internally. And externally.

"Leah, what is it with you and the archaic, homely men of the administration?" I sighed. Girl will never learn.

Leah scoffed, mouth stuffed with banana and nuts. "You just have to hear him talk. You haven't had him, dude. He will blow your mind."

"Psh. Sure. Just so long as you don't start blowing his head."

"Shut _up_!" She tried to hit me from across the table, but I dodged it with a ninja-like agility.

"Anyway…since I can't talk about the friggin' _love_ of my _life_…how's the ole semester for you? _June-bug_?"

I rolled my eyes and my face flushed due to the fact Steve's stupid dance popped up in my mind, immediately. Fuck face.

"Oh! Okay, dude—I have The fucking Trout Lady in last hour."

"Oh my Gaga. Are you kidding me?" Leah's eyes sparkled. It felt like we were sharing a weird secret.

"No…the whole place reeks of fish. Friggin' fish hatchery in there. And…" my stomach fluttered with a strange flash of nerves "to top it all off, I sit right next to Steve Rendazo."

"Oooh. That's rough." Leah wasn't even really paying attention, I could see her eyes flutter as she took in another bite of ice cream. "Steve is hot, though…" she said, absentmindedly. "I'd tap that."

"You'd tap anything, Leah."

She cackled. "You are such a bully. Jesus. But that's probably true." She laughed again, and we Chatty Cathy-ed it up about other things.

* * *

Leah was driving me home when I saw a group of recognizable nerds from our jail of a school. They were huddled together right outside the bowling alley, like an anxious pack of puppies.

I scanned the faces and—

"Wait a second," I motioned Leah to slow down.

A little bit apart from the group stood two people, hugging awkwardly. Just awkwardly enough to alert me who the male in the situation was—technical male, that is—Bleek.

And Sara. Some sophomore slut who Bleek sometimes talks about.

My hormones are raging. Plus, I just injected myself with a shitload of cheap, banana-filled sugar. Despite these two factors, I see the unmistakable trace of affection in the way Bleek tips his head and slips his arms around her.

They're smiling, they break apart.

"Shiiit." Leah breathes out, glancing at the alley. "Is that Bleeker?"

"Yeah." I said.

"Do you wanna stop over there? Give that child a piece of your mind?"

"It's nothing, Leah. C'mon. It's Bleek. He wouldn't ever cheat or anything."

"She is pretty," Leah mused, her eyes going back to the road. "That's Sara Parker."

"I know who she is," I snapped, as we rounded the last corner it takes to get to my house.

"Geez. PMS, much." Leah grumbled out.

* * *

"Hey…Dad?" My voice feels higher than usual, but I don't think it's really detectable. Especially not to old Pops. He's sitting with a beer, easing his mind from a likely grueling day on the job.

"What, Juniper?" I swear to vlog, he comes up with a new nickname for me daily.

"We need anything from the store? I'm itchin' to drive."

Dad paused, absentmindedly mulling over whatever the fridge or cupboards may be lacking.

"We could use some more orange juice," Brenda shuffled in the kitchen, filling up a glass with water and ice.

"Orange juice it is!" I declared, and, jingling my coveted keys, I headed out the door.

* * *

At night, while driving, my brain felt clearer.

Seeing Bleek with Sara kind of irritated me. To say the least, it played a Debbie Downer to the rest of my day.

Feeling sour, trudging back to the van with a jug of generic brand juice, an idea struck me—an idea I couldn't quite shake away.

The van moving smoothly, radio off, I drove past Vanessa's enormous house. The lights were off, but the strange psychic within me only needed that sense that…that my…my _son_ was in there.

Don't get me wrong. I love being free, and I wouldn't ever be able to handle the obese responsibility that comes with a kid.

I was just having a weak moment. Really off night. Maybe it was PMS.

I reached the main road to find a red light and a ridiculously blue car right next to me. I leaned over, looking to see what sort of douchebag was driving that thing…

Only to meet the eyes of one Steve Rendazo. Along with two other brainless _bros_.

They were smiling. All of their eyes read, "Hilarious, a nerd dyke in her mommy van!"

I sneered and abruptly smiled, revving my mommy engine—doesn't that sound strangely naughty—

Steve revved his smooth engine, the three jocks cracking up.

Green light and we race.

I'm smiling, readily pissed, anger just overwhelming any common sense or any other sense other than _speedspeedspeed_.

I flood that gas.

Of course they win.

I want to laugh, but I just don't know what to think. I feel freer, but I feel the same. That drive felt absolutely fucking unsatisfying. I turn the corner, to our quiet, soft home, and lie in my bed. I switch my CD player on to some mellow Moldy Peaches.


	3. Chapter 3

Ehhhhh. Feeling bored. Sorry if it's not up-to-par/too short/whateva.

* * *

_**~Facebook Chat~**_

Steve Rendazo (10:00): Hey. Lezzie

Steve Rendazo (10:03): Helloooo

Steve Rendazo (10:04): Anybody home?

Juno MacGuff (10:05): Jesus.

Juno MacGuff (10:05): I left to go make me a sandwich.

Juno MacGuff (10:05): So why did you message me?

Steve Rendazo (10:05): Make me a sammich.

Steve Rendazo (10:06): Woman

Juno MacGuff (10:08): Please, don't be afraid to refer to my previous question.

Juno MacGuff (10:09): Unless you honestly wanted me to make you a lunch delicacy as I have nimble fingers and adept stacking abilities.

Steve Rendazo (10:10): This is why you can't sit at the cool kid table

Steve Rendazo (10:11): Wasn't in class today. Did we have hw?

Steve Rendazo (10:14): Do I offend

Juno MacGuff (10:25): And I'm back. We didn't have any homework….

Juno MacGuff (10:26): We never do, Rendazo….

Juno MacGuff (10:28): This is why you can't make honor roll

Steve Rendazo (10:29): Hey

Steve Rendazo (10:29): I pay attention

Steve Rendazo (10:29): For all you know I could be honor roll

Juno MacGuff (10:30): Please

Steve Rendazo (10:31):

Steve Rendazo (10:32): I feel cyberbullied

Juno MacGuff (10:33): So go cry into your community college application

Steve Rendazo (10:36): No hw, then

Juno MacGuff (10:37): Nope.

_**~Juno MacGuff has logged off of Facebook Chat~**_

* * *

"Do you want to do something?:)" I stare at the glowering little screen at my thumbs all I'm-about-to-have-a-mental-breakdown style. Every single time I get this text from Bleek it means one thing and one thing only: he wants some action. In the pants. Pronto.

Usually I blush, laugh, and stomp into my sneakers to head over to his place. _Nothing like a little bit of nookie_, my grandma never said.

However, the instant I read those words Sara Parker's face flashed in front of me. Whoops, I should clarify: Sara's face *attached* to Paulie's face flashed before my eyes. She _really_ is really pretty—far prettier than I; the honest, humble voice I usually keep gagged in the back of my mind realizes it. The adolescent voice inside of me decides to loathe this shallow fact and attribute it to…

To the beginning of the end of my relationship with Bleeker.

As much as I'd like to get my mack on with my sweet, well-intentioned man—I know that I'd be picturing her the whole time. That last statement very well may justify every single one of those homosexual jokes Rendazo scoffs my way. I digress.

We—Bleek and I—we feel doomed. As doomed as Oprah attempting yet again a cheeseburger-less diet. And so I impulsively take on a dark and dismal perspective deserving of some kind of published set of free-verse poems: I gotta tell him that—

My phone lights up with a second text from him: ";)"

How bold.

Still, I can literally feel his bony finger slipping and fumbling his way around Down Under, eyes staring at me, lips lightly pecking around like an anxious and starved bird-_Quantity not quality_, my grandma also never said.

And yet, something breaks inside of me. I blush, I laugh softly, and I stomp on my tennis shoes.

"Be back in a few hours!" I call out to probably nobody.

To my surprise I hear Brenda's distant "Drive safely!" from the kitchen.


End file.
